


Hell and High Water

by spacejargon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 12:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacejargon/pseuds/spacejargon
Summary: Water spirits, Dean decides, are the absolute worst. Not only is he pretty sure his soul's been almost taken from him, but he's drowning on dry land.





	Hell and High Water

It starts out wet.

Runny nose, wet cough, wet eyes from a blistering headache. All the signs of a cold that start with a slam into Dean from all sides, reducing him to a crumbling structure of rubble.

When Sam first fished him out of the water, he hadn’t remembered a thing beyond waking to a world of choking on black water and air. As he woke up, he heard the sound of something burning with a rising hiss, Sam’s hands on him trying to get a response.

A vodnik, of all things, which had been poisoning water in some towns and killing people. Sam said something about it being some ambiguous spirit thing, but Dean hadn’t paid attention. To be honest, all he really remembers is going up to a gurgling black pond and seeing long strings of angel hair algae, slowly dying in an old well that had been used by a small rural population.

He surfaces for what feels like the first time but it’s the second and Sam’s voice is far off, distantly aware of the sound of Dean hacking up his lungs.

“Dean!”

Dean, placed on his side by Sam’s ever-observant wisdom, feels the salty black water forcing its way up his esophagus and nose shortly before it makes a second appearance. Coughing and spitting, Dean gags all the way through the burn of black water pooling on the ground next to him, holding himself up on one elbow that trembles under his body weight.

After what seems like forever of throwing up black water, Dean takes his first deep lungfuls of air. They never last long.

His vision blurs as he gives wet coughs, roused from the depths of his lungs filled with water. Sam’s holding down the fort, as Dean sees glimpses of the slimy thing that was the start of all this, the vodnik, screeching when Sam dumps gallons of saltwater over it.

Steam rises in the air as Sam jumps back, the heat vicious enough to scald a nearby tree already decorated with the claw marks of the vodnik. Sam finishes the gallon jug of ocean water in his hand on the steaming mess, tossing it aside when he notices Dean’s searching for him.

Dean drops like a wet stone. Hacking up his lungs is probably the most painful part of all of this, because no matter how deeply he breathes, he can’t get air down.

_“_ _Dean!”_

In between mouthfuls of bile and black water, Sam’s hands grasp him tightly about his shoulders. “Hey hey hey—I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Dean’s stomach turns as it starts to settle. He gulps, tasting bile and the slick of sick coating his tongue.

“Didya get it?” Dean forces air through his mouth and out his nose, blinking a few times. “Or did that guy in the shop throw us off again?”

Sam grimaces, helping Dean to sit up as he carefully sweeps over his brother with a watchful gaze. “No, it’s gone. Apparently ocean water’s the only way it can be killed. Well, that we know of. Are you okay?”

“If you mean I feel like my soul’s been molested one too many times,” Dean juggles with a belch of water and snot, gagging on the taste as it comes out his nose instead. “Then yeah. What’d the creepy bastard want, make me into monster beer?”

Sam shakes his head with a snort. “They collect souls in cups. I don’t think it wanted to drink you.” He braces himself and offers a hand, helping Dean to his feet and frowning as a shiver barges its way into Dean’s bones. “You sure you’re okay?”

Wiping at his nose to catch the sight of black snot, Dean shrugs off Sam’s concerns and brushes his hand against his jeans. He’s soaked to the bone. “’m fine. Just need a change of clothes and a beer or two.”

Sam shakes his head, unconvinced but unquestioning. “Right. Let’s get back to the bunker. I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand another night in our motel.” He turns to Dean as if hesitating to head to the car. “You sure you’re up for the drive? It’s an eight hour drive at most.”

“What’s the matter, Sam? Afraid of some rats getting cozy with your hair?” Dean turns down the offer of Sam’s jacket, mostly wanting a change of clothes. He’s pretty sure there’s a blanket in the back of the Impala, somewhere amongst the back seats.

Sam makes a disgruntled face, catching the car’s keys when Dean tosses them over the hood. “You’re gross.”

“Shut up and get a blanket out, I’m not about to ruin my baby’s interior.”

Sam rolls his eyes but does as told, pulling out a disgustingly brown blanket and laying it over the passenger’s side, folding it up just to be safe. When Dean’s caught staring at the hideous color, Sam shrugs.

“What?”

Dean slides his way in, shutting the door behind himself and nearly catching his foot with a dizzying whirl of motion. “Nothing. Start driving or I’m leaving you here.”

Sam makes a retort that’s not as sharp as Dean’s sense of humor, quickly forgotten when as soon as they hit the road, Dean’s head falls against the window.

~

Eight hours later and one teasing from Sam he promises not to let Dean forget, they’re back at the bunker. Dean bails as soon as they’re parked, citing stomach troubles and waving off Sam’s concerns as he quickly makes way to the bathroom.

He should’ve changed at the rest stop three hundred miles ago. It had been relatively empty and it had heating, but at the time, all Dean wanted was to sleep in his own bed for the next week. Messing with angry water spirits tends to do that to any sane person. Especially after puking up black water that tasted like death the moment Sam pulled him out of the pond.

Stumbling in a daze to his bedroom, the bathroom door shuts behind him in an uncertain click. His knees soon give afterward, reaching the tiled floor in an ungracious heap of sweat and damp clothes that reek of dirty ponds. God, all the dead fish in there was enough to make him swear off fish forever.

His stomach dry heaves as he catches the edge of his bathroom counter. In a dizzy, vertigo-induced nightmare of the room spinning around him, Dean makes a short path to the toilet and starts choking up whatever stubbornly remains in his stomach.

It takes a long string of minutes before something detaches from his stomach and forces its way up. Dean feels it slither up his throat, parting when bile fills his mouth alongside the drool running down his chin. With one rough cough, black sludge falls into the toilet.

The taste is like congealed blood and pond water, which is exactly what it looks like. Black, sludgy pudding with a jelly-like quality that quickly makes him decide to swear off any sort of Jell-O products for good. Even pudding is questionable, especially when his nose plugs and oh hell, a thick black clog slithers out of one nostril like a damn leech.

Blood trails on his fingers when he blows his nose, trying not to gag as he does, and the monster dislodges. It sinks into the toilet with disgusting imagery attached, blood starting to dribble from his nose and plop into the toilet with quick, rapid drops.

A few knocks at the bathroom door force a groan.

“Dean, are you okay?”

His head rests against the toilet seat, unconcerned with how gross that is. He feels much worse. “Good as I’ll ever be,” he responds in a low murmur, barely loud enough to be heard by Sam. To him, his voice is too loud and it pounds against his eardrums, rattling in his skull. “Whatcha want now?”

“Can I come in?”

His brain punishes him with a wandering eye moving to the contents of the toilet. “Not the best idea right now.”

Sam’s voice drops, concern lacing through every word. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“No, just…” The world is spinning. His head hurts with a throbbing pulse. “Trying to forget I almost drowned.”

“Do you need to go to a hospital?”

“No, no hospitals. Just...” Oh hell, he can’t remember how he got here in the first place. It’s all one big blur. “Lemme deal with it. ‘m tired and I need some sleep.”

Sam isn’t convinced. At all. “I don’t believe you. Either you open the door or I’m coming in there.”

For as tired as he is, he doesn’t even care if Sam’s trying to threaten him. He rests his cheek against the toilet lid, gasping for air when he keeps forgetting to breathe, feeling the pins and needles of lightheaded nausea.

Sam’s in there in no time, realizing the full severity when he catches the blood and black splotches in the toilet, coming over to Dean to shake him awake. “Dean, what is this? When’d this come up?”

He blinks, bleary and his head filled with fog. Every passing minute makes each breath hurt more. “When we got back. Like...five minutes ago.”

Sam _swears,_ which is a rarity on its own. “We’ve been back thirty minutes, almost an hour. You’ve been throwing up—whatever that is, this whole time?”

He doesn’t even wait for an answer, though Dean doesn’t feel like giving one. The next thing Dean knows, Sam’s fishing out his cell phone and Dean’s mantra of _no hospitals_ becomes dull noise against the sound of Sam dialing Castiel.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam’s palm comes to Dean’s forehead, far too cold for Dean’s liking. “ _Shit_ , sorry. We’ve got a problem and I’m about to take Dean to the hospital. We were dealing with some spirit earlier and Dean almost drowned. I think it’s secondary drowning but he’s throwing up blood and this black stuff.”

Castiel’s voice is muffled as Dean feels a weak heave spasm in his chest. Another bout of vomit is coming and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

Dean reaches over the toilet, waving off Sam’s hands on him as he pulls himself close, hugging the toilet bowl and he retches some more. His eyes are burning with the fevered breath of stomach acid slipping into his throat like a reverse shot of rotgut whiskey.

He feels like death warmed over. Sam’s voice is distant but urgent. “Hey, Dean, can you hear me? Dean?”

Black sludge boils up and out of his mouth, blood streaking the sides of the toilet bowl right before the blissful moment of when his body decides to have an unannounced shutdown.

~

Dean wakes to the strong urge to puke his guts out and surrounded in blankets, which can only mean several things.

One, somehow Sam got him into bed, and judging by how he has no concept of time, who knows how long it took.

Two, he’s not really sure the conversation with Sam ever happened.

Three, Sam is here with him. Or someone: it’s hard to tell who in the dark.

“Dean,” a voice that is definitely not Sam’s greets him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit, Cas,” the words bubble up in an acidic breath. Nausea swells from the subsequent burn. “When’d you get here?”

The dip in his bed becomes more apparent as Castiel shifts his weight, a hand touching Dean’s cheek. Then his forehead. “Yesterday, or approximately five hours ago. It is currently one in the morning.”

Dean groans with a pitiful breath. “Any reason you’re here specifically?”

Castiel’s voice quietens as if noticing how it makes Dean’s ears ring. “Sam called me, afraid you were dying from secondary drowning. You were, amongst other things.”

Well, that explains the raw ache of his throat. “Like…?”

“I was forced to remove the water from your lungs. What you had thrown up earlier was from the water trying to suffocate you. The water of the residence of a vodnik is cursed. Anyone who comes in contact with it will be poisoned and drown shortly after ingesting it.”

Dean’s mind fumbles a bit as he reaches out in the dark, trying to put a shape to a voice. “I thought we killed it.”

Castiel’s hand finds his when it brushes against the bedding and the slick feel of a trench coat. Castiel’s fingers lace in between his, blisteringly hot against Dean’s skin. “You did. Sam killed the spirit with ocean water, but the curse cannot be remedied when you nearly drowned in the pond.”

“Shortened version, Cas,” Dean huffs and groans, his ribs aching with every breath. “I don’t care for the details.”

Castiel draws in a measured sigh. “The water was still trying to take your soul. The blood you vomited earlier was what happens when the curse comes in contact with its victim. I was able to expel the rest of the water from your lungs, but you are still poisoned.”

“Fun.” The word rings in the hollow crevice of his throat. His muscles try to move, coaxing a swallow to soothe the sting, which doesn’t work.

“Not really,” Castiel responds in the dark, his voice just as quiet, pensive. “I had to find a book with the information for a cure. Unfortunately, there is no cure. I could only find a way to placate the curse until it wears off, which should take three days in total.”

Dean coughs with the harsh, wet slap of his lungs closing and opening over phantom mouthfuls of water. “And…?”

Castiel mutters something that doesn’t translate.

“What?”

The hand on his cheek brushes over his temple, then his forehead. “I was only able to do so much. In order for the remedy to work, you have to drink it when I tell you to. If you miss a dose, the curse will come back stronger. It’s the most practical manner of keeping you alive. Without it, you may drown in your sleep.”

“Sounds...stupid.”

“Please stop trying to speak, Dean.” Castiel has the patience of saint for dealing with Dean’s constantly squirming limbs and his endless confusion. “I need an answer from you. Do you want to try the treatment?”

Going by the sensation of slowly suffocating, it’s not like he has much of a choice. He nods in the dark, to which Castiel moves away from him for a moment, leaving him reeling with the idea Castiel is leaving.

He grabs for Castiel’s coat, his fingers coiling in _something_ when Castiel’s voice suddenly returns. “Dean, I’m not leaving.”

 _I knew that._ Did he?

Castiel’s hand weaves underneath Dean’s opposite arm, giving a tug to pull him up from the uncomfortable angle his head rests at. Once he’s sitting against the headboard, a nearby lamp turned on, Castiel hands him a mug and waits until Dean’s got two hands on it.

He doesn’t let go as Dean stares at the wine-dark liquid suspiciously. “What is it?"

Castiel’s frown deepens. “It would not be wise to tell you. Once you drink it, you must drink the same dose every two hours until the curse is broken.”

His head is spinning. “It smells like...wine?” It’s a dark color of red wine too, which reminds him of cough syrup. Which undoubtedly is the worst substance known to man. He wonders if Castiel has ever had to deal with cough syrup, feeling a brief spark of strange pity for anyone unfortunate enough to give it a whirl.

Speaking of whirling, his stomach is churning rapidly as the seconds tick by. “Cas,” he swallows, saliva pooling in his mouth faster than he can swallow down and it foams at the corners of his mouth. “Cas, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“I can explain the process in which it was made—it is similar to wine. Much like the ocean water used to kill the spirit, fermentation is a similar process to curing, which is derived from salt that drives away the curse.”

“Cas, Cas,” he chants the angel’s name like learning a new word. “I don’t care. I don’t think I can drink it. I feel sick.”

Castiel’s fingers slip around his, tightening in place. “You can and you will, Dean.”

Steeling what nerves he has left, Dean, with the help of Castiel, lifts the cup to his lips. Just as he’s hit with the reek of wine he starts to gag, wanting to pull away when Castiel’s other hand forces his hands around the cup and he tips it to Dean’s lips.

The taste is like dry wine and cough syrup along with an earthy, moldy taste that reminds him of funky cheese and wood chippings. In short, as soon as it hits his tongue he wants to hurl and it takes every ounce of strength from Castiel holding the mug in place to keep from giving up right then and there. The whole thing goes down with a thready texture, the need to breathe far stronger than the bitter burn raking over his tongue by the time the awful thing is down.

His hands drop onto the bed. Castiel takes the mug and sets it somewhere, his shoulder a good place for Dean’s head to fall as his stomach starts with its symphony of revolt. With one hand winding through tousled sheets, he captures the clammy, cold feel of Castiel’s hands in his own, with Castiel much warmer than he is.

Castiel’s fingers thread between his. “You have a fever.”

Dean swallows a cross between a hiccup and a cough. A hiccough. Ha. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

“Your brother has been waiting outside your door since I arrived.”

Dean’s eyes glaze over, his head moving with uncoordinated jerks until he’s staring up at Castiel, lips tightened into a pale white. “Yeah, sounds like ‘im.”

Castiel is quiet for a longer pause as the lamplight flickers out. Dean swallows bile and tries to kiss him, failing when he can’t surmise the strength to lift his head without feeling the need to pass out. “I care for you very deeply.” Fingers come to cup Dean’s cheek, warm and light.

“I know, Cas.”

Castiel kisses him, tasting like wine and cough syrup.

**Author's Note:**

> Angel hair algae has a certain stomach-churning charm to it.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
